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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



CITY PASTORALS. 
By William Griffith 



City Pastorals 

and Other Poems 



BY 



WILLIAM GRIFFITH 

Author of "Loves and Losses of Pierrot" 




NEW YORK 

JAMES T. WHITE & CO. 

1918 






Credit is due to McClure's, Smart Set, Poetry, Thr. Fra, 
Theatre Magazine, The Poetry Journal, The International, 
Current Opinion, the Sun Dial editor of the New York 
Evening Sun, to the editor of The Bang, and to other 
publications for having published many of these poems. 



COPYRIGHT BY JAMES T. WHITE a CO. 
1918 



OCy f Q I Q 

'*• : ©CI.A501101 



-w$ I 



TO FLORENCE. 



GUIDE TO THE TITLES. 

Argument 9 

CITY PASTORALS 

Spring 11 

Summer 26 

Autumn 40 

Winter 57 

OUTWARD BOUND 

At the Door 71 

The Ghostly Hound 72 

Litany of Nations 72 

Hadleyburg 76 

My Dog 77 

Magdalen 78 

overw0rld to underworld 78 

Underworld to Overworld 80 

Enigma 81 

The Hospital 83 

Encounter 84 

ITINERARY 

Invocation 89 

Stageland 90 

On Patrol 91 

Derelict 100 

Bumble Bee 103 

Travel 105 



SEA SPRAY and WOOD WINDS 

From an Atlantic Window 109 

Ephemeron no 

The Hunt no 

At the Will of the Moon in 

Oh ! Not the Moon in 

On Chatham Beach in 

War 112 

The Duel 112 

Vigil 112 

A Character 112 

Oubliette 113 

Love and Life 113 

Renunciation 113 

The Haunted House 114 

Mors Omnibus Communis 114 

Spring Song 114 

Serenade 1 14 

Canticle 115 

Autumn Song 115 

Interlude 116 

Requiescat 116 

FANCY FIELDS 

The Making of Spring 119 

The Garden Cinderella 120 

Envoy 121 

Oak Lore 122 

Evening 122 

An Umbel for Spring 123 

Apotheosis 123 

The Sisters 127 

Vale 128 



ARGUMENT. 

Rumor A Friend 

Rumor: So this may be considered, in a friendly way 
and without beating about the bush, as another — an 
American — word added to what has already been so 
excellently done with the eclogue? 

Friend: Yes. As the title indicates, it is simply a 
group of lyrics in dialogue, flavored of the country, and 
intended to be more or less appropriate to the four 
seasons. 

Rumor: Although done in verse, do you think that 
rhyme in dialogue is natural? 

Friend: It may be musical. The world, in its infancy, 
lisped in numbers — and verse, antedating prose as a 
medium of auditory expression, would seem to be equally 
natural. 

Rumor: Exactly. And yet the book does not seem to 
offer any progressive gospel, nor to urge any specific 
remedies for such evils as prevail and are more 
or less clearly indicated. 

Friend: No. It urges nothing, save perhaps the gos- 
pel of striving to find beauty in daily things. 



9 



Rumor: One might say that the author was trying 
to realize the poetry and philosophy of new-world life? 

Friend: Yes, undoubtedly; but only in so far as 
others who, with a sort of desperate conviction, hallowing 
beauty and truth, may realize the same thoughts and 
share the same outlook. There is no special attempt at 
characterization. The three persons — Brown, Gray and 
Green — are voices in shadow, so to say; voices from 
invisible verandas, conveying hints and aspirations and 
memories of emotions and pulses that beat, and have 
probably beaten forever through the world. 

Rumor: How odd — the names of the characters! 

Friend: Hardly so odd as obvious — do you think? 

Rumor: H — m. The fatalism which Brown evan- 
gelizes and personifies is abstract. A play would seem 
to be more ample for the development of the idea. 

Friend: Why attempt the impossible? 

Rumor: Impossible? 

Friend: Well, say a play with no other ambition than 
to be a poem? 

Rumor: Ah! I understand. 

Friend: Yes? 



10 



SPRING 

Scene. A New York Club on a side street. 

Time. 19 14. 

Brown. Gray. Green. 

Brown, reading at a table, lays down a daily paper. 
Gray has just entered the room and is seated near a 
window. A number of newspapers and periodicals cover 
the table. The atmosphere is heavy with the depressing 
heaviness of early Spring, the subtle bondage of the city 
encouraging thoughts and memories of the country. 
Above a confused murmur of voices from the outside 
echoes the commerce of the avenue. 

Brown: 

Today, the same as yesterday, 
The toiling sun goes west. 
Gray: 

Another joyous roundelay 
Awakens nest by nest. 

Once more the clean, green April woods 
Are brimming with the Spring. 



11 



Brown : 

And crocuses and mary-buds 
Are shyly opening. 

But never bud or bloom or bird, 

Or sylvan serenade, 
Have we on Broadway seen or heard 

Above the din of trade. 

Nothing remains for one to sing 

That was not sung of old, 
Except that nearly everything 

But death is bought and sold. 

Ay — what is life but something cheap, 

And means of living dear! 
And what a luxury to sleep 
Beyond a waking here! 
Gray: 
Of course — desires and pleasures are 
Enhanced by death. 
Brown: 

The stress 
Of living seems to grow. 
Gray: 

We mar 
Our health and happiness 
In our own souls and bodies by 

Imagining the worst 
Precedes the best. 



12 



Brown : 

Mere martyrs! 
Gray : 

Why 
Aspire to be the first? 

Heaven with hell sometimes agrees 

That man be gay, instead 
Of vainly coveting the ease 

And leisure of the dead. 
Bronunx 

Oblivion is failure still. 
Gray: 

Success is understood 
By those alone who have the will 

To please the multitude. 

Brown : 

Success is something more and more 

Impossible to gauge, 
Amid the heavy iron roar 

And thunder of the age. 

Relying on themselves, the strong 

Condemn and criticize, 
Or damn the weakling in the throng 

Who may not win the prize; 

Or storm the age with mightier deeds 
Than are for us to try, 



13 



Who flourish simply as the weeds 
That sprout and grow and die. 

Life lingers on in hodden gray, 
For one condemned to yearn 

And rot ignobly day by day, 
Being hardly meet to burn. 

My soul has no dynamic force, 

Nor energy divine, 
To follow any other course 

Than happens to be mine. 

And whatsoever may befall 

Is profitless and stale; 
My youth has been a prodigal 

At every bargain sale. 

Wherefore my once divine desires 
Have crumbled into dust, 

Now that all passion in me tires, 
Confusing love and lust. 

I hear the clamor of the town, 
As something that pursues 

A fugitive to drag him down 
And put him in the news. 

Anon a trumpet warning peals 
And challenges the fears 

That rush and rally at my heels, 
And gather with the years. 



14 



On my despairing gaze, the sun 

Of Arcady and Ind 
Appears like innocence when one 

Defiantly has sinned. 

Gray : 
The imagery is as dim 
As innocence to me, 
Upon my word ! 

Brown: 

A passing whim 
To jest at misery. 

Nor may you wholly realize 
The ghosts that haunt my sight 

Persistently and tyrannize 
The regions of the night. 

Wanly the stars go swarming by, 
Like moths upon the wing, 

On whom the Spider of the sky 
Is ever battening. 

Fairer than lilies in a dell, 
The Plains of Night are strewn 

With silvery shadows that foretell 
The coming of the Moon. 

Gray: 
Good-lack ! 



15 



Brown : 

The heavy sable shade 
Is yonder backward drawn: 
Behold Her walking like a maid, 
Far on the starry lawn 

In blossom ! 

Gray: 

Dian is abroad 
Without a chaperone! 

Brown : 

No, no! 
Gray: 

Betray and then defraud 
Yourself — and live alone; 

For you must answer, ill or well, 
For all you do and see. 
Brown: 
With eyes that dwell, as one in hell, 
On far felicity, 

I still review the simple ways 

Of happy, hallowed years. 
Of late the sun has led my days 

In very sordid spheres. 

By night a coil of avenues 
Around a thousand eyes, 



16 



Is writhing where the city views 
Inviolable skies 

Adorned and jeweled with the stars. 

Beneath them, waging stark 
Rebellion, many a toiler wars 

With hunger in the dark. 

Like ghosts of former lass and lad, 

Are ghoulish shapes that greet 
And spend themselves upon the sad, 

Gay women of the street. 

By day the sore and feeble stray 

Amid the sights that breed 
In lanes and avenues — the prey 

Of every crouching need. 

Once — once when, raving in his cell, 

As back and forth he trod, 
They said the convict prayed to hell — 

I damned and doubted God. 
Gray. 
Divinity has been denied 

By many a brooding mind ; 
And looking on the darkest side 

Drives men and women blind. 

Though Life and Love are bought and sold, 

Remember that the trees 
Forever mantle, as of old, 

With green embroideries. 

17 



Glad April pipes right merrily; 

And when the apples fall, 
The lanterns of Sainte Eulalie 

Are beacons to us all. 

Hearing the matins and the lauds 

Of heaven chime and ring, 
The sun still rises and applauds 

The jocund shout of Spring. 
Brown : 

On Broadway, by a happy chance, 

My eyes have freshly seen 
The soul of April and Romance, 

Not far from Bowling Green. 

And something came down from the skies, 

Distilling fresh delight, 
As though a rose in human guise 

Had blossomed on my sight. 

Ah! had it been the Holy Grail, 

Or an old Christian shrine, 
No greater wonder could prevail 

Than made the day divine. 

For a once dear familiar face 

And presence suddenly 
Were summoned from the past to grace 

A fading memory. 



18 



And like a song that has been sung, 

Or story that is told, 
My aching thoughts have been among 

The happy days of old. 

Enter Green. 

Gray: 
What news? Have you been on the mount 

Where grows the herb of grace? 
And near enough to Spring to count 

The blushes on her face? 
Green: 
I? I have overheard the rill 

Rehearse for hours and hours; 
And witnessed, over dale and hill, 

The marriage of the flowers. 

And learned why Time is fleeting — aye! 

And why Art is so long; 
And on a week-end holiday 

Have made a little song — 

A song that haply has been sung, 

And been rehearsed again, 
Since Time and Chance and Love were young. 
Gray: 

Recite or sing it, then. 

Green: {recites). 

19 



SONG. 

They have asked me why the flowers, 

Lady mine, 
Cast a shadow on the hours, 

As they pine. 
Surely they know not the room 
In dream-chambers where the gloom 
May be sweetened by a bloom, 

Lady mine! 

If I plucked the stars for roses, 

Lady mine, 
And told all that Day discloses, 

As the shine 
Of the sunlight strikes the shade 
Round the golden petals laid 
On your bosom, they would fade, 

Lady mine. 

But if I could run a brook, 

Lady mine, 
That with chatters through each nook 

Would entwine, 
In its ebb and surge and flow, 
All the roses, do you know 
What the breeze would whisper low, 

Lady mine? 



20 



Brown: 

Have done! No solace may be won 
By taking Love in vain. 

Gray : 
Love seeks for solace in the sun, 
As well as in the rain. 

Green : 
Ah! The heart of Time grows heavy, 

Lady mine. 
Few that mustered in the levy 
Are in line. 
Do you know what age will do 
To the roses plucked for you, 
When the sun has left no dew, 
Lady mine? 
Gray: 
Coming with Cupid from the woods, 

The king-cups you have seen 
Approach and doff their little hoods 
Before the Fairy Queen! 

Brown: 
A gross anachronism ! Bow 
Them out of doors. 

Green : 

I seem 
To see the fairies even now, 
As in a boyish dream: 



21 



Away down in a wooded dell, 
Still trooping through the shade, 

Step by step to an elfin bell 
An eery cavalcade. 

Anon the warriors gather round 

With leafy lances bent; 
The beetle, with his bugle wound, 

Proclaims the tournament. 

And dimly, as the airy sprites 
Upraise a muffled cheer, 

The firefly in the grasses lights 
His swinging chandelier. 
Gray: 

Since when have you returned 
From where the twilight veils 

Arcadia? 

Brown : 

And only learned 
To foster fairy tales 
Of revelry? 

Green : 

A starry fay, 
With heaven listening 
Out on the hills, taught me today 
A song the thrushes sing: 



22 



Something bids the forest hush; 

Little pinions softly whir. 
Hardly in the underbrush 

Does a leaf or shadow stir. 

Is it playing just in fun, 

Or in tears the forest grieves, 

Ere the happy morning sun 
Glances in among the leaves? 

Oh, to hear a happy voice! 

Just the angel of the rain, 
Bidding earth and sky rejoice! 

Sing on — sing that song again! 

Gray: 

What? 
Brown: 



Green : 



On the hills? 

Yes: let me think. 



Gray: 

Think? Never think to pin 
The angels down. But up and drink 
A health to Spring! 
Brown: 

Begin. 
Gray: 
Daily there is but little more 
Than duty to be done, 

23 



Nor right to rest attained before 

The setting of the sun. 
A stout heart is the merry heart, 

Upon a fading trail ; 
And though it end where it did start, 

I sing the humming ale. 



Chorus. 

We sing the humming ale, good friend ! 

But here's a health to you ; 
With one more, when the trail shall end, 

To turn and start anew. 
Heigh-ho! the bowl, from brim to brim, 

Lies full. Fill a cup. 
While now the rosy apples swim, 

Drink deep! Drink it up! 

Green : 
The sounding city offers some 

Felicity, but oh, 
Once more at leisure let me roam 

Where prairie breezes blow! 
Once more the sturdy roving foot; 

And with an ample load 
Of light hopes and an easy boot, 

I sing the open road. 



24 



Chorus. 
We sing the open road, good friend ! 

But here's a health to you ; 
With one more to the nappy blend 

Of Saxon in the brew. 
Heigh-ho! the bowl, from brim to brim, 

Lies full. Fill a cup. 
While now the rosy apples swim, 
Drink deep! Drink it up! 
Brown: 

Shuddering cities fall asleep, 

Obediently still. 
Bedded in darkness is the deep 

Dream of the urging will. 
Shirking the burden and the stress, 

The gypsy has to rove ; 
But still, for hope and happiness, 
I sing the song of love. 

Chorus. 
We sing the song of love, good friend ! 

But here's a health to you ; 
With one more to the hopes that send 

The parting moments through. 
Heigh-ho ! the bowl, from brim to brim, 

Lies full. Fill a cup. 
While now the rosy apples swim, 

Drink deep! Drink it up! 



25 



SUMMER 

Scene and Persons: The Same 

Evening. The room is lighted by hanging lamps in 
the center. On a table are pipes and glasses, a jar of 
tobacco and a crock of ale. The moon shines through 
an eastern window. 

Green: 
A clear soprano, filled with sun, 

The thrush repeats his wedding song. 
Gray : 

Once more blithe summer voices throng. 
Green: 

Once more the gossip waters run. 

Gray: 
They murmur of the flowers of hope, 
That twinkled over fens and lakes. 
Green: 

Upon a thousand gardens breaks 
A thunder-shower of heliotrope. 

Gray: 

And daisy-blossoms fringe the lanes. 
Green : 

And where the drowsy primrose dreams 
The livelong day, the woodland streams 
Are brimming with the summer rains. 

26 



The robin beats his golden gong 
With rapture, leading many a band 
Of woodland minstrels. 
Gray: 

Down the land, 
Come thrush and black-bird borne along. 

They say a bird on every tree 
Is busy with a song. 
Brown: 

They say 
A million human voices pray 
Upon a second Calvary. 

A distant sound of weary feet 
Arises and assails my ears, 
As though a fountain-head of tears 

Were playing yonder in the street. 

Green: 
The owl molests the solemn chime 
In many a belfry far away. 
Brown: 

To-whit, to-whoo — which is to say 
That to be happy is a crime. — 

Dumb, beyond dreaming, who can be 
Deaf to the ever-clanging bell 
That registers and rings the knell 

Of faith and hope and charity! 



27 



Green : 
And still the bells of elfland ring 
In the high turrets of the air. 
Brown: 

What wonder that the owl must stare, 
Like one whose wits are wandering! 

Green : 

What wonder that, on nights as clear 
And bright as this, the elfin folk, 
Who paint the lilies, on the stroke 

Of twelve, are wonted to appear! 

Brown: 

So far may fancy, rather, stray. 

Green: 

No, no! 

Brown: 

Then bid your fancy go, 
And be a swallow in the glow 
Of meadows waving far away. 

Gray: 

Turn down the lamps. 
Green: 

Wait! 
Brown: 

Turn them out 
Completely! 



28 



Green : 

You may fail to see. 
Gray: 

Dive deep. We promise secrecy. 
Brown : 

Begin while silence soothes the doubt. 

Green : 
Softly the wandering breezes pass 

And whisper something through the years, 
Disclosing all the green frontiers, 
As in a magic looking-glass. 

Afar the blue horizon fills 

And mantles with a rosy foam: 
And now the herds are nearing home, 

As evening gathers on the hills. 

A distant ridge : with shaded eyes, 
I stand and gaze ; and over all 
The hills and dales a human call 

Arises fraught with thronging sighs; 

Arises with an echo so 

Melodious and thin and lone, 

The thrushes launch a trembling tone 

On waves of music sobbing low. 

And over hill and over dale, 

As darkness deepens on the land, 



29 



Softly the Moon, with cloudy hand, 
Puts on her lace and silver veil. 

Remotely ebbing — heard again, 
The sobbing billows faintly break 
On phantom shores: the zephyrs shake, 

And darkness overruns the plain. 

Brown: 

It is too dark indeed to find 
Beauty amid such ugliness 
As one deplores, with less and less 

Despair of ever going blind. 

The city goes from bad to worse, 
And festers like a running sore 
That spreads and, growing more and more, 

Is slowly rotting to a curse: 

A discord ! 

Green: 

Could one only see 
A blue-bird tarry in the street! 
Gray: 

Extremes, wide-circling, often meet; 
And discord strengthens harmony. 

So never mope, nor ever dwell 

On direful woes and ancient wrongs, 
As maddening as the maddest songs 

Of cap and bell. 

30 



Brown: 

Beneath the spell 

Of ambushed meanings that dismay 
My wondering soul, above me leer 
Devouring eyes — as those of Fear. 

Gray: 

Unleash the dogs and come away! 

A danger, wooed in wilfulness, 
Caps vanity. 

Green : 

Which, capped, avoid. 
Decisive moments, unemployed, 
Are swift forerunners of distress. 

Brown: 

Who can avoid the human pang 
That stabs a spirit at the Throne, 
When many hear the doom of one 

Who dreamt his foolish dreams — and sang! 

Green: 
Or wise or foolish, let us cross 
No bridges ere we come to them. 

Gray: 

Forever has the rarest gem 
Been hidden where the tempests toss. 



31 



And so, another round of ale, 

And someone sound a sylvan note. 
Green: 

As once in outland ways remote 

Was heard the whistle of the quail 

Across the lonely miles and far 
Away where earth and heaven meet 
On hallowed ground, in dear and sweet 

Communion with the evening star. 

Brown: 

There are no longer any dews 
In mist or rain, nor any bell 
To toll me nearer home and quell 

The thunder of the avenues. 

Green : 
Away from irking toil and town, 
New hopes may blossom and unfold. 
Brown : 

Aspire and dream and feel the old 
Enthusiasm dying down! 

My courage bends beneath the weight 

Of obligations to be met; 

And on me heavily is set 
The scarlet seal of love and hate. 

My soul is rubbed by every wrong 
It touches — and is red and raw. 



32 



Life rasps me like a rusty saw 
That drones a lazy, vicious song. 

Art? Nature? Each a heartless bawd, 

Supreme in her indifference! 

They have obsessed my every sense, 
Save that which deems them but a fraud. 

Ahead are spread the dreary years 

In drab and dull monotony; 

And mine but weakly is to see 
The rainbows that are woven tears. 

Nor may the Message of the Dawn 
Be mine to sing or mine to say, 
When the Great Question bars the way. 
Green'. 
The Question? 

Brown: 



Gray: 

Brown (reading) : 



Written here. 

Go on. 

SONG. 



Why is the young world weeping, 
With its heart so full of song? 

And eyes like pools of vision, 
Rain-blue and sun-strong? 



33 



Nor a broken hope for a pillow, 
Nor a treasure worth the keeping, 

In view of the gold the morrows hold: 
Why is the young world weeping? 

Why is the strong world weeping, 

With the thunders in its grasp? 
And love so willow-slender 

And ready to its clasp? 
Time, in the middle harvest 

Of sowing days and reaping, 
Delays to page the Golden Age: 

Why is the strong world weeping? 

Why is the gray world weeping, 

With heaven so near at hand? 
And with no wish nor wonder 

Elsewise to understand? 
Drowned hopes have turned to coral, 

And Age comes creeping, creeping 
Down to the streams of deep day-dreams 

Why is the gray world weeping? 

Gray: 
Self-flattery and praise withheld, 

Being the base of shallow grief, 

It has become ray firm belief 
That tears are seldom deeply welled. 



34 



Green : 
If duty has been reckoned least, 
A song is nobler never sung. 
Gray: 

Devoutly rosaries are strung 
For penitents as well as priest. 

Green : 
Well said! 

Brown: 

Albeit feeble speech 
May touch the story clumsily, 
Some haunting Presence follows me, 
Prodigious in its subtle reach. 

I gaze from heaven, from the gate, 
Adown the dim, vast starlit hall, 
Wherein the nations rise and fall 

Like shadows, at the whim of Fate. 

A moment near, a moment gone, 
And sounding on the iron skies, 
A Voice of Thunder dwells and dies; 

And so the world moves on and on. 

Crowding the distant starry road, 
With banners fading one by one, 
The pageant passes and — alone, 

I dream the solitude of God. 



35 



Green: 
Unreal reality. 

Gray : 

Yes — yes ! 
The paradox may have a phase 
Of truth: but come, a health — to raise 
This siege of growing moodiness! 

Green: 
A health around! 

Gray: 

One more — and then, 
Good-night. 

Green: 

You leave? 

Gray: 

My holiday. 

Green: 

And whither? 

Gray: 

England. 

Green: 

What? Hooray 
For Merrie England once again! 

Gray: 
For all the English flags unfurled 
Beneath the sun ! 



36 



Brown: 

And why not our 
Republic, mighty with the power 
To mold the future of the world, 

With hands as strong and sure as Fate? 
The emblem of the flag we fly 
Is peace, to station manhood high, 

Or war, to make a nation great. 

Green: 

And Germany? 
Gray: 

A feudal folk, 
Whose blood is surging through our veins. 
Green: 

Dark Russia? 
Gray: 

Groaning at the yoke, 
Still Russia toward freedom strains. 

And France, whom words may not express, 
Whose glory may not be denied, 
Still flushes, deeply mortified, 

Behind a veil of loveliness. 

But all are watching, from afar, 
An empire, born of old distress, 
Awakening to consciousness. 



37 



Green : 

The glory of our rising star 
Shall never wane. 
Gray: 

The sword and pen 
We wield as when our fathers saw 
The dawn of Universal Law, 
In England among Englishmen. 

Brown: 

I think of Ireland held in thrall. 
Gray: 

I think that I have somewhere heard 
Of freedom as an Irish word, 
Revered among us most of all. 

Erin, that hungers for a crumb, 
Like a beloved vagabond, 
Remains improvident — the fond 

And foolish waif of Christendom. 

Brown : 

For Law and Freedom! 
Brown : 

Why not, pray, 
America — and with a cheer? 
Green: 

Hurrah — stand up ! 
Brown: 

And let us hear 
From some one with a wassail. 

38 



Gray. 

Stay! 

We have heard the toast to a people 

Who inherit the English tongue; 
By the men of the far horizons 

Their praises have been sung — 
Sung by the warder kinsmen, 

Whose cause is a common cause, 
When the vandal cannon thunder 

Against the iron laws. 

Abroad are the King and the Kaiser 

War-bent on the thin frontier. 
Under the seas come stealthily 

A rumor and a fear. 
Shall the nations not be wiser 

Than Goth and Frank and Hun, 
Till the great gray seas cease chanting 

Under the tranquil sun? 

Blow winds, blow the West good tidings! 

Blow peace to the South and North! 
And tonight, as the starry cohorts 

Break ranks and sally forth, 
And the lights of a beacon empire 

Flash clear to the seventh sea, 
Drink — drink that the sun shall ever 

Be shining on the free! 



39 



And peace to the cobwebbed cannon! 

In peace, as brothers may, 
While the ships of a Whiter Squadron 

Ride on to a brighter day, 
A health to the Unknown Father! 

To the Universal Plan! 
And the Law of a kindred children, 

From the States to Hindostan! 



AUTUMN. 

Scene and Persons: The Same 

Entering. 
Brown : 

Four months? 
Gray: 

Today. 
Brown: 

And you are back 
From overseas to recommend 
The treadmill and the beaten track, 
That lead to nothing in the end: 

Where men, who want for daily bread, 
Are vassals of the phantom will, 

And daily subject to the dread 
That need and ghoulish laws instill. 



40 



Foregoing everything — to think 

Of wandering across the sea, 
And having time to breathe, and drink 

The nectar of such luxury! 

Ah! to have spent a summer there, 

Before the war hounds yelped and bayed! 

And was the Old World very fair? 
Or were its edges worn and frayed? 

Green: 
Was it congenial, as of old, 

To view at ease, on pleasure bent, 
The parlor countries wherein lolled 

The lords of leisure and content? 

Brown: 

Contentment may waylay the sun, 

And thaw the zones to mellow mirth, 
Yet coldly comfort any one 

Denied the freedom of the earth. 

Green: 
What was it like? How did it seem, 

Upon a tramp abroad, to see, 
Abruptly, like a broken dream, 

A new page turned in history? 

In August to have seen mankind 
Deliberately stab itself! 



41 



Gray : 
The war? Why, Europe went stone blind; 
And hell broke loose in search of pelf. 

The vultures, that do commonly 

Haunt the gray edges of the world, 
Plucked at its heart. 
Brown: 

Yet you were free 
To mix and mingle where they whirled. 

Gray: 

And you? 
Brown : 

I? I have been a slave 
To ways and woes and written words. — 
Green: 

Indeed? 
Brown: 

Not having dared to brave 
Dismissal and go where the birds, 

Across the dreamy, golden hours, 

Through sunny afternoons took flight, 

And, singing, wakened in the flowers 
The pulses of a new delight. 

Necessity has made me fear 
The pinch of poverty and need, 

To drudge and duel daily here, 

With thoughts of other mouths to feed, 
43 



Touching the spirit of it all, 

Is something deeper than distress, 

As now and then I half recall 
Some old forgotten happiness. 

Maugre the tear that wells and thrills 
From heart to eyes that strive to see 

The waning wonders on the hills 
And frontiers of eternity. 

Gray: 
I have a poem that may cheer 

And lift and take you out of town, 
And make you hold as something dear 

The green-grass gospel. 

Green'. 

Read it, Brown. 
Brown (reading) : 

WANDERLUST. 

God, with a dawning gaze, 

Kindles the sun, 
Forging the iron days 

One after one; 

Shapes and designs the trees, 

And now and then, 
Fanning the furnaces, 

Labors on men; 



43 



Smiting and hammering 
This from an ape, 

That from a stammering 
Primeval shape; 

Giving them each the vast 
Reach of the sky, 

Since the dark ages passed 
Tardily by. 

Showing the way to choose 

Rest and reward 
From the green revenues 

Next to the sward; 

Urging and beckoning 

City and town 
Forth for a reckoning 

Now and anon 

Over the open trail, 

Clean from the din; 
Sun — stars — a friendly hail, 
Lights and the Inn. 
Green: 
Harken the heavy iron clang, 

Such as the world was built upon! 
Brown: 

Oh for the time when Homer sang 
The holy candor of the dawn! 



44 



Gray : 

Why brood and browse on Once and Then, 

When Here and Now are full of hope, 
And women bravely tread with men 

The upward and the downward slope. 

Green'. 
Or whether in or whether out, 

When Fortune happens down the way, 
Be thankful for the call. 
Gray : 

And shout 
With us who hail the coming day. 

Brown: 

A far cry ! 
Green : 

No! 

Gray: 

Whom have you met 
To introduce so much of gloom? 
In happiness one must forget. 
Brown: 

My Spring, that left, forgot to bloom. 

And happiness, though erstwhile sweet, 
Was but as poppies ere they swoon, 

With faces shyly raised to meet 
A fatal kiss — the kiss of noon. 



45 



For days grow long, and one grows tired 
Of shaping ways and means to fit; 

Keeping ahead of hunger — hired, 
The latest auctioneer of wit. 

Alas that flattery is sought 

By those who covet and, like me, 

Clutch at the tangled ends of thought, 
And borrow at sad usury! 

With all the harvest of a youth 

Misspent, I now am left by Art 
With needless songs, to bear — forsooth! 
The burden of a wasted heart. 
Green : 

Crosses and thorns are grievous — though 
We carry burdens of our own. 
Gray: 
As Jacob did, when long ago 
His harder pillow was a stone. 

The moral is as broad today 

As it is long — and new and true 
As is our greatly simply lay, 
That trumpets the Red, White and Blue — 
Green : 

The flag! 
Gray. 

The flag that Grant and Lee 
At Appomattox saw unfurled, 

46 



To bid us stand for liberty 
And be the conscience of the world. 
Brown: 

What? Bide in any London crowd, 
Berlin, or Petrograd, amid 

Paris, when Paris thinks aloud, 
Or in Vienna, Rome, Madrid ; 

And hear the slight and grudging praise 

That scouts our chances to attain 
What Lincoln dreamt, except to raise 

And crown a shadowy Charlemagne! 
Gray: 
Too late. No Caesars need apply; 

And Charlemagnes are overdue. 
Shining for us to travel by 

Is peace to light the ages through. 

Green : 

Begin again! 
Brown : 

An antique role, 
When all about us is the din 
Of armament. 
Gray: 

A pipe and bowl, 
And we are all immortal! 
Brown: 

In 



47 



The breath of war, it does suffice 
To say that such as we who sing 

Are but as foolish little flies, 
Or hornets eunuch-fain to sting. 

So praises be — and let us hear 

How Green has found the countryside; 
And how the golden fields appear, 

With portaled harvests opened wide. 
Green: 
Occultly through a riven cloud, 

The ancient river shines again, 
Still wandering like a silver road 

Among the cities in the plain. 

On far horizons softly lean 

The hills against the coming night; 

And mantled with a russet green, 
The orchards gather into sight. 

Through apples hanging high and low, 
In ruddy colors, deeply spread 

From core to rind, the sun melts slow, 
With gold upcaught across the red. 

And here and there, with sighs and calls, 
Among the hills an echo rings 

Remotely as the water falls 

And down the meadow softly sings. 



48 



A wind goes by; the air is stirred 
With secret whispers far and near; 

Another token — just a word 

Had made the rose's meaning clear. 

I see the fields; I catch the scent 

Of pine cones and the fresh split wood, 

Where bearded moss and stains are blent 
With autumn rains — and all is good. 

An air, arising, turns and lifts 
The fallen leaves where they had lain 

Beneath the trees, then weakly shifts 
And slowly settles back again. 

While with far shouts, now homeward bound, 
Across the fields the reapers go ; 

And, with the darkness closing round, 
The lilies of the twilight blow. 

Brown: 

Cease, cease! 
Gray: 

Around us rolls and roars 
The tide of traffic. 
Green: 

Over trees, 
On wood and orchard Nature pours 
Her crimson autumn witcheries. 



49 



Brown: 

All day the roaring tide has rolled, 
On every side, on every hand. 
Green : 
And all day have been lavished gold 
And glory on the autumn land. 
Brown: 
A captive spirit is but one 

Imploring something beautiful. 
Gray: 
Lanier and Whitman saw the sun 
As something other than the dull 

Had yet imagined. 
Brown: 

Artists crave 
The hidden soul in everything. 
Green : 
The vireos of autumn rave 
With mellow voices carolling 

So sweetly! 
Brown: 

Art is full of cant, 
Deluding those who are but wise 
Enough to crave a stimulant 

Made half of truth and half of lies. 
Green: 
Of lies? 



50 



Gray : 

No, no ! Men meet and part 
In droves and flocks; but it is fleece 
Half clothes the world: and as for Art, 
The city is a masterpiece. 
Brown : 

Art surely has gone out of date, 

And Worship has been shot with fear. 
Alas that it has been too late 
To bid the old gods reappear! 

Recant nor call it heresy 

To lay the phantom fires of hell ; 
Nor worship with a cringing knee 

The narrow God of Israel. 
Gray : 
Beauty and Truth and Love are still 

The trinity — the polar star, 
Guiding perchance by starry will 

Such derelicts as mortals are. 
Brown: 

Truth that in fire and flower has slept 

Since Eden and the dawn of dreams, 
Is roused nor kept awake except 

By mortals going to extremes. 
Green : 
For mortal eyes it is but meet 

That beauty never grows so fair 



51 



But that one, searching in the street, 
May find it lurking here and there. 

In dust and gutter and the whine 
Of poverty may still be found 

The accent, as of things divine, 
Lost in a wilderness of sound. 

Yet take us hence and let us hear 

Of knights and kings and seneschals; 

In the gray empires bring us near 
The moats and mossy castle walls — 

When victor over vanquished stood, 

And men thought chivalry to be 
A pilgrimage in manlihood, 

Before the shrine of courtesy. 
Gray: 
So long ago they went their way 

That but their shadows now remain, 
Beyond such things as be today, 

With chivalry upon the wane. 

Europe is still across a blue, 

Interminable barricade, 
And gazes frowning on the new 

Frontier and order we have made. 

Goodly and fair it is the while 

To muse on hallowed shrines, and see 
As in a vision, slowly file 

The knightly ranks of pageantry; 
52 



When he, the lion-hearted king, 

Was royally a troubadour; 
And he, of fame still echoing, 

Stabbed France awake at Azincour; 

Or when those early warrior lords, 
Within the Temple Garden gate, 

Ere Towton was a field of swords, 

Raised the white rose and wrecked a State. 

But life has come to have less room 

For conflict than in ages gone, 
And much less need of men in whom 
The ape and tiger linger on. 
Brown: 

Less room? less need? How reconcile 

The ape and tiger as revealed? 
The world would kiss Christ with a smile, 
Clutching a dagger half concealed. 
Gray: 

The world? 
Brown: 

Ay — the same Judas world, 
That never changes or grows old ; 
In whose heart treachery lies curled 
And venomous and serpent-cold. 
Gray: 
Nay! Catholic humanity, 

Whose ribs are made of rocks and sod, 



53 



Remains deep-hearted as the sea, 
And just about as broad as God. 

And gladly does it hear the gay 

And sanguine voice of Shakespeare sing 
. Such songs as only singers may 

When joy-bells of a nation ring. 
Brown : 

I question Shakespeare. 
Gray: 

Be inclined 
To doubt the name, but heed the voice 
And motions of the mighty mind 

That made the morning stars rejoice. 

Green: 

His gaily, gallantly to reign, 

And be, among the men of rhyme, 
A poet ever to remain 

And cheer the heavy heart of Time. 

Gray: 

His voice the heavens bent to hear! 
Green : 

His sway is over all romance ! 
Brown: 

And all reality! 
Gray: 

I fear 
No eulogies are left for France. 



54 






Nor for the deep-toned singing land, 
Whose passions now are running wild ; 

Rude, rabid, ruthless to command, 
And simple-hearted as a child. 

Nor for the royal Savoyard, 

Who reigns in Rome, where Caesars reigned, 
Weighing the chances of reward, 

Victor in name — but not ordained. 

Nor for the Man of Destiny 

Who, in his hour of triumph — lo! 

With unawed will was soon to see 
The ruined dream at Fontainebleau. 

Br own: 

And life has come to have less room 
For conflict than in ages gone? 
Gray: 
The dawn breaks slowly through the gloom 
And shadow of Napoleon; 

Breaks slowly through the sombre night 
That darkened Spain — and that again, 

On Mexico falls like a blight, 

Shrouding the slayer and the slain. 

Nor shall one prophesy the end, 

While Hope and Love continue strong. 
Brown: 

The most of strength that we can lend 
It but to tell the Right from Wrong. 
55 



Disgorged on us a motley crowd 

Has surged — a tide no laws do stem. 
They sap our life-blood. Are we proud 

To have put genius into them? 
Gray : 

Cuba, that staggered in the dark, 

Hastened the dawn and bade us see 
Clearly the way ahead, and mark 

The milestones of eternity. 

Lo! now that Europe has been shot, 
And, hydra-headed, lies half-curled, 

Our glory to have not forgot 
To be the conscience of the world. 

Green : 

Hope dwells in this young land of ours ! 
Gray: 

That groping out of darkness grew! 
Green: 

Her woods are wild with native flowers! 
Brown: 

In them are rosemary and rue. 



56 



WINTER 

Time: 1914-15. 

Scene and Persons: The Same 

Logs blazing on the hearth. 

Gray: 

A merry blaze brings in tfie year. 
Green : 

The world is blithe and warm 
In many a home where none may hear 
The slander of the storm. 

As fabled as the desert suns, 

And very far away, 
Remains the thunder of the guns, 

Turning the empires gray. 

Remote is Russia, in a trance ; 

And England, Belgium — dazed 
By the great light that shines in France. 

Is Europe not amazed? 

Gray: 

Amazed can hardly be the word, 

Since Europe is too old 
To be amazed — and has not heard 

The Message rightly told. 

57 



Greater it is than has been said, 

Or dreamt or prophesied, 
By those who dreamt and who are dead, 

Or dream and have not died. 
Green : 

Cronies of owlish vision know 

That Right, as well as Wrong, 
Is swaying empires to and fro, 

And driving them along. 

Gray years and tears are but as one 

Wan dew-drop in a cup, 
Just brimming over ere the sun 

Forever dries it up. 

Despair and strength we have in kind, 

The sunshine and the showers, 
Among the elements that bind 

And hold us to the flowers. 

So come — bring on the ruddy ale, 

If only to be sure 
That hope and happiness prevail 

That men may but endure. 

Once more — a health! 
Brown: Words — warm and light! 

But warmer, lighter still, 
Must be the hearts of those tonight 

Who would evade the chill. 

58 



For yonder crouching in his lair, 
Now shrewdly shifting — hark! 

How the keen claws of Winter tear 
The marrow of the dark! 

Ah! comrades, who may know how wild 

And piercing, incomplete, 
Is silence when a little child 

Begs vainly in the street? 

By many a hearth, in sore distress, 

The mother, hollow-eyed, 
Is hiding from a childish guess 

Her deep heart-broken pride. 

Wrestling so playfully with Fate, 

Give pause amid the strife 
And realize how desperate 

Is each and every life. 

God ! the remorseless pendulum 

Ticks on and tolls the knell 
Of some who work and pray — and some 

Who wake and weep in hell. 

I hear the Christian curse his birth, 

Jews, Pagans crying out 
Against the heavens and the earth, 

In blasphemy and doubt. 



59 



The deep gulf between Right and Wrong 

Daily becomes a thing 
That widens, widens — and the long 

Bread lines are lengthening. 

I see Despair traced on the wall 
Where none knew what it meant, 

In companies ignoring all 
The smothered discontent. 

Again they meet. I hear the tread 

Of lawless bands — and see, 
Upon a million faces spread, 

The scowl of anarchy! 

Green: 

Enough — nor dwell on hapless things 

So blighting to our cheer. 
Alow, aloud the birch-log sings 

A welcome to the year. 

And while we watch the dancing elves, 

Just turn another page, 
And recollect that we ourselves 

Live in a golden age. 

And living in an age of gold, 

I fear I cannot see, 
Or sympathize with any scold 

Proclaiming anarchy. 



60 



Brown: 

Not anarchy! 

Green : 

What else? 
Brown : 

No! No! 
It was a passing mood, 
An idle fancy. Now the glow 
Of flame-flowers scents the wood. 

Gray: 
A nibble! Surely, to insist 

Upon a glowing scent 
Is marking Brown an anarchist 
Or else a decadent! 

Green: 
Decadency but serves to blur 
The candor of the skies. 

Brown: 

Its service simply is to stir 
And waken some surprise. 

Gray: 
Proceed and tell us how you write 

With hope or with despair, 
Spending yourself but to invite 

Age, poverty and care. 



61 



Brown: 

The tale is less than many think 

Who reckon it divine, 
With no emotions taught to drink 

Remembrance as of wine. 

Beauty is mine to seek and chart, 

With Nature as a guide, 
Amid the lilies of the heart, 

Through fibres pushed aside. 

Wherefore I cull me here a rose, 

With lilies in between; 
And reap but where Another sows, 

To sow where others glean. 

And, plucking blossoms now and then 

For Love alone, I know, 
Alas! nor how nor even when 

Another one will grow. 

By hour and day and month and year 

I do become a mark, 
And am shot through with killing fear 

And horror of the dark. 
Green: 
A truce to such depressing moods, 

And pipes and glasses bring! 
Lo! in my fancy now the woods 

Are carpeted with Spring. 



62 



Like fugitives from fairyland, 
With dewy gems impearled, 

The flowers begin to understand 
And range the forest world. 

As gay and reckless as of old, 

Still rollicking with fun, 
The dandelions spend their gold 

Carousing in the sun. 

Oh, never any daffodil 

But heeds the vernal call, 
Divinely pulsing with the thrill 

And wonder of it all! 

Just yonder do the pansies peer 
Around the passing herds, 

Awakening as if to hear 
Some carol of the birds. 

And back and forth the kingcups skip 

About the blossom queen, 
All watching now the crocus trip 

A measure down the green. 

Brown: 

Already drifting is the snow 

On roof and square and street, 
With muted echoes from the slow, 

Sad tramp of weary feet. 



63 



They pass who duel with the stern 

Necessities — and grope 
With failing strength who only learn 
The hopelessness of hope. 
Green: 

Hark! midnight slowly tolls. 
Gray: 

Time leaps 
The hurdled universe 
Once over. 
Brown : 

While the city sleeps 
Securely on its purse 
Of luxury. 
Green : 

No more, for lo! 
I only see the woods; 
As, down the year, beyond the snow, 
An April orchard buds. 

Wherein by many a spreading tree, 

Descending far away, 
In clean forgetfulness I see 

The little children play. 

And vocalized the air now shakes 

As, hurrying along, 
The punctual bobolincoln breaks 

Into a world of song. 



64 



Till gathering from far and near 
The wondrous lyrics ring, 

Arousing violets to hear 

The leaping laugh of Spring. 

Daring and urging many a rose 
To burst in crimson showers, 

Already faintly stirs and flows 
The best blood of the flowers. 

And over tree and tower and town, 
With night and darkness gone, 

Around the lily stars are blown 
The roses of the dawn. 

Gray: 

The dawn? 
Green: 

Aurora bravely pins 
On high a starry page. — 
Brown: 

Illegible. 
Green: 

Whereof begins 
Another golden age. 

Brown: 

Born with an instint to destroy, 

The vandal ages pass 
As heedlessly as any boy 

Who stones a window-glass. 
65 



Why make a mockery of things, 

Excusing it as Art? 
Green : 
A mockery — when Joy still sings 

Deep in the common heart? 

Brown: 

I fear the songs know much distress. 
Gray: 

Above the darkest night, 
The stars still shine. 
Brown: 

For happiness? 
Gray: 

Immortal souls shall light 

On earth forever and for aye, 

With their magnificat, 
While lad and lass together stray. 
Green: 

The heavens echo that: 

For it is Love makes life divine. 
Gray : 

A million systems move, 
With thronging suns and moons that shine 

Beneath the rule of Love. 

Brown: 

The war-worn world begins to tire 
And bend beneath the load 
66 



That burdens it — and to inquire 
The distance and the road; 

Begins to question and to doubt 
The guide-book and the Guide, 

Who lit the stars and blew them out 
Ere heaven was descried. 

Its faith is gone! 
Green : 

But something more 
Than faith is making plain 
The highway to the Secret Door, 
Since Hope and Love remain. 
Gray: 

Since Hope and Love remain, the great 

World, reeling, bludgeoned, hurled 
From God, is master of its Fate. 
Green : 

Bludgeoned ? 
Brown : 

Alas — 
Gray: 

The world! 



67 



OUTWARD BOUND 



TO 



EDWIN MARKHAM 



69 



AT THE DOOR. 

HERE at the door are visions unfulfilled, 
Dreams to be dreamt, and voices — voices stilled, 
As Eden darkly was ere the first bird 
In the ancestral silences was heard. 

And here are songs midway in homing flight, 
That hover on frail pinions and alight 
Softly, less audibly than is the quake 
Of spirits tremulous, or hearts that break, 
Here at the door. 

Here at the door are many messages 

Of cheer and lurking faith — a folded kiss, 

A sealed desire, a sigh, a memory 

Of things that were as rainfall on the sea. 

Thronging are shapes and shadows near at hand, 
Cast by the sun of some lost fairyland. 
And in the air are rumors and the stir 
Of meetings and long partings to occur, 
Here at the door. 



71 



THE GHOSTLY HOUND. 

STRETCHED on the threshold of the night, 
No neighbors spy 
The heavy jaws but shun the sight, 
On passing by: 

The heavy jaws that sag and yawn 

With hungry guile, 
Until the coming of the dawn , 

Blurs them awhile. 

O Hound of Death so darkly still, 

Haunting the door! 
Sniffing in silence at the sill, 

Forevermore! 

Gray ghostly house! Shall lurking fears 

Sigh through the hall, 
Until the last lone tenant hears 

The hushed footfall? 

* LITANY OF NATIONS. 

The nations shall rush like the rushing of many maters 
. . . and shall be chased before the wind. — Isaiah. 

GREECE. 

AEONS of old were wandering down the seas, 
When Homer sang at Chios — and the sweet 
Tranquillity of marching silences 
Was broken at my feet. 

* Written in 1913. 

72 



Great dawns have shown the way, 

When we have wandered. 
God, in the battle sway, 

Wliat have we squandered? 

ITALY. 

Avid and Roman-born in soul and sense, 

Master of all else but myself was I, 
When, bound by silken cords of indolence, 
I saw the world go by. 

FRANCE. 

Ravaging, roystering and repenting — save 

In story and the regions of romance, 
Rises the moon on whom more mad and brave 
And beautiful than France? 

GERMANY. 

Once German arms and German armies hurled 

Thunders on Rome. Than mine no readier hand 
Would wake the violin and woo the world, 
Were it a fairyland. 

AUSTRIA-HUNGARY. 

Mine is a house divided but upheld 

By the sheer force of many hemming powers. 
Ages, like forests, have been hewn and felled 
To build my crumbling towers. 
73 



RUSSIA. 

Gray winters flourish and old empires fail; 
And still the starry watchmen sally forth, 
As wardens, with me, of the frozen grail 
And ramparts of the North. 

BALKAN STATES. 

Stabbing the skies for stars and air in which 

To bask awhile and breathe — shall we remain 
Simply the little brothers of the rich? 
God! have we fought in vain? 

SPAIN. 

Strong was my soul in war and wise in peace. 

On whom else was the Moslem vanguard hurled? 
Ay, but for me had any Genoese 

Sailed and brought back a world? 

SWITZERLAND. 

High noons and sunsets pass while I repeat 
The world-old secret of the endless quest: 
And with the nations ageing at my feet, 
I overlook the West. 

GREAT BRITAIN. 

Flecking the seas where war and tempest brew, 
And biding till the gonfalons are furled, 

74 



My British sails have dared and driven through 
Thunders that shook the world. 

AMERICA. 

Never so many millions have been free, 

As to my shores have come from pole to pole. 
A by-word have I made of liberty, 
In giving them a soul? 

JAPAN. 

Amid the warring peoples I, that slept 

And dreamt of wide dominion — confident, 
Ambitious, urging, conquering — have stept 
Out from the orient. 

CHINA. 

Glory and power for ages had been mine, 

Until upon me fell a sudden night, 
Such as makes beacon-star republics shine: 
And my eyes saw the light. 

TURKEY. 

In infidel debate on whence and why, 

They hiss my God, and know not whether hale 
And wise, or worn and withering am I, 
Behind the crimson veil. 



75 



Great dawns have shown the way, 
When we have wandered. 

God, in the battle sway, 
What have we squandered? 



HADLEYBURG. 

Hadleyburg was the most honest and upright town in all 
the region round about. — Mark Twain. 

JOHN BARLEYCORN he said the town 
Was half a knave and half a clown, 
Nor saner than the law allowed: 

With all its stiff restraints and prim 
Observances, the place, he vowed, 

Had too much starch in it for him, 
And kept itself upon the jump 

To whip the devil round the stump. 

That crooked souls and crooked knees 

Distinguished men from walking trees, 
Was sagely then and there agreed: 

But bent on laughing them to scorn 
Mad John, denying them a creed, 

Resolved to stray amid the corn, 
And eavesdropping from stalk to stalk, 

To hear some goblin money talk. 



76 



And peeping from behind a bee, 

He fell into a reverie, 
Beholding them so smugly housed, 

And pondered what would happen had 
Some sudden thunder been aroused! 

Thinking of which the silly lad 
Collapsed beside a brawling brook 

And laughed until the welkin shook. 



MY DOG. 

TODAY hell chuckled at another lie, 
That gave no human being any pain, 
Except one temporary soul. Nor Cain 
Was more heart-heavy when he came to die. 

I branded him a cur that by-and-bye 
Would go the way of mongrels and be slain, 
By man nor God regretted; clear and plain 

Were the reproaches written in his eye. 

He bridled slightly ere he slunk away 
An hour ago and perished in a bog, 

Saving two children who had gone astray: 
Since when the sirens sounding through the fog 

Are Gabriel horns that thunder me to pray, 
Or to be damned for slandering my dog. 



77 



MAGDALEN. 

T) LINDED > O Dante, by love at first sight, 

■*— " Her face did yet betray what beauty meant! 

Beauty, that always is so imminent, 
And fugitive and plumed for sudden flight. 

Sappho nor Beatrice was she whose slight, 
Frail spirit was a candle not yet spent. 
Her body, worn with passion, had not bent 

Nor broken on the rough coasts of the night. 

Why did they look askance? She was not wise, 
Or worldly, in not wishing any crown, 
Such as a queen might covet — or a clown. 

Why did they look askance? She and the skies 
Were witnesses against the craven Town, 
That held her by the hair lest It should drown. 

OVERWORLD TO UNDERWORLD. 

GOD went to sleep one day in quiet, 
And had a dream of bee-folk swarming, 
With stingers whetted for a riot; 

His work so needed some reforming. 

And since bee-folk are very human, 

Both as to virtues and to vices, 
They settled down as man and woman 

Engaged in making laws and prices. 



78 



And some, with both hands on the Bible, 
Were not above clandestine sinning, 

Refraining meanwhile, as a libel, 

To praise the work from the beginning. 

The healing balm of better wages 
Drew others to condemn the revel 

And recreations of the ages, 

As strongly smelling of the devil. 

Who breaks as well as makes the laws h 
Since then as zealously as ever 

Resigned to remedy the causes, 
And rock the cradle of endeavor. 

Amid the stress and strain and tension, 
And rot and rust and sloth and shirking, 

It baffles human comprehension 

How well the old machine is working. 

Working? Sheer heresy nor schism 
The face of honest labor blanches. 

The Tree? A spray of socialism 

To kill the roots and save the branches? 

Each day a Sabbath! Who would falter 

In sanctimony or in sighing? 
Nor hope to blunder past the altar, 

And plunder heaven without dying? 



79 



UNDERWORLD TO OVERWORLD. 

GREAT is the age, so vainly great! 
That strives to quench and quell and hew 
The springs and pillars of the State: 
If greatness knew! 



Brief power and passion so abound 

As to enthrall the very few, 
And go on hedging them around, 
Who cared nor knew. 

Who rightly reckons any more 

The seasons wherein darkly brew 
The dissipations of the poor, 

Who dared nor knew? 

Say who of them knows right from wrong! 

Or gives a damn for me or you ! 
Or heeds the heavy undersong! 
If they but knew! 

Gray, writhen masses coiled and curled! 

Half-hooded eyes that glitter through 
The thunders of the underworld! 

If God but knew — if God but knew ! 



80 



ENIGMA. 

WHERE shall the ant spend the night, 
The last night of all? 
Or the bee, or the bird, 

Whose song was a prayer hardly heeded or heard? 
Or the serpents that crawl, 
Panic-stricken of light? 
Or the soaring untameable things 
That have wings? 
Shall they fall, 
Or abide? 
Shall they hide 
In the skull ... in the husk 
Of the bat-haunted void ... in the dusk 
That is falling like fine 
Sifted ashes on that which has strangely been yours 

or been mine? 
Shall the tomb 
Be a quickening womb? 
Or worms be the anchoret ivies that twine 
In the hair of a friend, 
Loved and lost, 
At what cost, 
In the end? 

Answer and say, 

As one may, 

That the riddle is slight. 



81 



But in sight 

Of the ultimate day, 

On the eve of the night, 

Shall the jungles be gay? 

Shall they thrill at the stem? 

Shall the roar in them be one of fright? 

Or the trumpeting thunders in them 

Be a plea for the light 

Fading out of the sky? 

Shall the stars, that were once traveled by, 

Flicker high, 

Blown by winds, each of them but the sigh 

And regret of a god? 

Or shall heavily nod 

Every head, 

Weighted down by the ominous dread? 

Having loved, having died 

Glorified, 

Shall man, on the anvil, have quailed 

At the frost in the fire, 

And God! to the dark be resigned, 

When the last spark of hope 

He could find, 

Shall be ashen — and nothing have scope, 

Or escape from the doom of desire 

For the light that had failed, 

In a world gone to bed? 



82 



THE HOSPITAL 

I. 

APPROACHING near and nearer now the old, 
Inexorable tyranny of dread 
Assails the soul. Death smiles and counts the co^l, 
Clear stars that thrill and shudder overhead. 

II. 

The pouring darkness seems to close around 
Another world forever. Something calls 

Across an age of silence — and the sound 
Is dying, dying slowly down the halls. 

III. 

She stands with eyes adread and watches them 

Prepare the table — sees them place the cone 

Upon the smooth white marble, clean and chill. 

Receding voices hover here and there, 

And die away in calm. The surgeons wait 

With quiet confidence. Already cuts 

The sudden menace of the glittering blades; 

And stealthy as the shadow of a fear, 

The opiate is creeping on the brain. 

O cool, delicious languidness . . . such as 

The leaves must feel beneath the early rain 

Of April . . . and the gasping spirit falls 

Into the yawning anaesthetic night. 



83 



IV. 

Drenched and submerged, the senses grope and swim 

Up from oblivion: a second birth 
Among the living magnifies the dim 

Magnificence and glory of the earth. 

V. 

So now they say the end is very near; 

The feeble pulse still flutters with the same 
Dim human fire — and one may almost hear 

The Moving Finger searching for the name. 

VI. 

Once more the smell of earth and rich warm wood, 

With rain and air and sunshine, as of yore. 
Wayfaring in the hand of God, where all is good, 
Once more. 

ENCOUNTER 

I MET my dead self on the street, 
And we both bowed, 
As strangers do who would not greet 
Dead men aloud. 

Startled ... we passed . . . with ghostly eyes, 

Condemned to stare, 
Not having time to recognize 

Each other there. 



84 



Reflected in dull eyes, that were 

The eyes of Spring, 
Autumn he saw ... in me . . . the blur 

Of withering: 

Bay leaves ... he saw . . . that might have been 

Less sere and brown, 
And hope ... an ember smoking in 

The dream burned down. 

Fancy the soul of Caliban, 

Ashen desire, 
Virgin of any breeze to fan 

The sunken fire! 

Around us many in the throng, 

With ghostly tread, 
Were strangely spirited along, 

As are the dead. 

Faces in legion bore no sign 

Of having found 
Beauty nor anything divine, 

In sight or sound. 

Had but to them some word revealed 

That life and land, 
In a new world, so long concealed, 

Were near at hand! 



85 



. . . God has mute spies — and one of them, 

In youth arrayed, 
Could find no language to condemn 

The trust betrayed. 



I met my dead self on the street, 

And we both bowed, 
As strangers do who would not greet 

Dead men aloud. 



S6 



ITINERARY. 



TO 



WILLIAM CANTON. 



87 



INVOCATION. 

CONJURE nothing else to darken 
The already cloudy passes; 
Vocal in the thunders, harken 
To the gospel of the grasses/ 

Reedy tongues and eery voices, 
Hushed amid the daily drudging, 

Say that long life to the naiads 
Still is hardly worth begrudging: 

Say that Time and Change have taken 
Grace and beauty much as pillage, 

Leaving sense and soul forsaken 
As a world-forgotten village. 

Ravaged by the vandal strollers 
Is the garden-close of beauty, 

Where the flower of truth once grevj in 
Stately faith with love and duty. 

Why not just believe in fairies'? 
Or that something still discloses 



89 



Wonders wrought wherever there is 
Grass or star or grace of roses? 

Say nor sing that grief comes never 
Until pleasure has departed, 

Nor the dusk to any forest 
But a bird dies broken-hearted. 



STAGELAND. 
I. 

UPON a stage as ghostly near 
And real as you and I, 
With now a smile and then a tear, 
The ages idle by. 

II. 

For grudging fame or drudging shame, 

The strolling company 
Is masquerading in the same 

Old human comedy. 

III. 

Anon the Critic seems to gauge 

Performers by the way 
Their predecessors on the stage 

Did honor to the play. 



90 



IV. 

By night a throng of starry eyes 

Is crowded in the hall, 
Endeavoring to realize 

The meaning of it all. 

V. 

Amid the waiting and suspense, 

Does anybody know 
That many in the audience 

Were players long ago? 

VI. 

Rehearsing rumors in the wings 
Since Eve and Adam sinned, 

Was Eden haunted by the things 
They whisper in the wind? 

ON PATROL. 

I LOAF and invite my soul. 
How curioTisf How real! 
Underfoot the divine soil — 
Overhead the sun. — Leaves of Grass. 

I reckon it a luxury, 

Such as the sky, 
To be here at the door and see 

Him idle by. 



91 



So slowly does he come and go 

Around and round ; 
A comfort it would be to know 

Where he is bound. 

An optimist beyond a doubt, 

Whose faith inspires, 
But counsels reticence about 

His own desires. 

Contrives to loiter and explore 

From day to day, 
Observing wonders more and more 

Along the way — 

Grass and the sun, the moon, a star, 

A human face, 
Becoming so familiar 

In every place. 

I marvel to myself that he 

Has ever grown 
Engrossed in them — he seems to be 

Mostly alone. 

By day he hears the shouts and cries 

That fill the town 
With stress and thunder, as the eyes 

Go up and down. 



92 



But dark and devious are his ways. 

Who ever heard 
A secret when a fellow says 

Hardly a word? 

Droll as a mummy on the Nile, 

That dumbly thinks 
Enough to petrify a smile 

Upon a Sphinx. 

As though awaiting tardy news, 

Day in and out, 
Haunting the busy avenues, 

He strolls about, 

Soliciting a word, a glance, 

Or just the hand 
Of an old crony who perchance 

May understand 

The sudden touch of loneliness 

That comes again 
Amid the shouting and the press 

Of many men. 

They look at him askance — heigh-ho! 

His purse is slim; 
And few have leisure to bestow 

Or waste on him. 



93 



Lacking is he in much — and still 

He makes ends meet. 
His presence in the autumn chill 

Has warmed the street. 

Ay, and moreover, what he had 

To give away, 
Would hardly keep a cherub clad, 

Observers say. 

Is he oblivious of that 

Inquiring gaze 
That turns to disapproval at 

His idle ways? 

His fool philosophy is just 

The sort to give 
An arrant wanderer who must 

Have time to live. 

Securities nor any land 

Has he at all ; 
Nothing for payment on demand 

His own to call. 

Wherefore he is particular 

To recommend 
Another course as better far 

To comprehend 



94 



Than such a one as he pursues; 

Because you might 
Be with him day by day — and lose 

Him in the night. 

Has such aversion to a stir! 

The dogs of war 
Have habits that the common cur 

Is noted for. 

War — is it aught but selfishness 

And greed gone mad? 
Its hungry body in a dress 

Of nettles clad. 

Has conflict any noble end, 

Save as the spark 
That flashes and reveals a friend? 

Dawn after dark. 

Meanwhile, in seeking liberty, 

He finds no home 
Commodious as having free 

Expanse to roam. 

Asks nothing else. He is, or seems, 

So far away 
From all the customary themes 

Of every day. 



95 



Appearing usually above 

Familiar 
Surroundings as acquaintance of 

Another star. 

On speaking terras with Jupiter, 

One might suppose ; 
And Venus? intimate with her 

As with a rose. 

The planets to him certainly 

Are populous, 
As nether regions of the sea 

Appear to us. 

Acquainted with much goblin lore 

Is he withal. 
And sh ! may have forgotten more 

Than some recall. 

To him no Sphinx or Pyramid 

Can be so old 
But that the secrets in them hid 

Shall yet be told. 

(Is one to arrogance inclined, 

Who would but know 
What the Creator had in mind 

Ages ago ? ) 



96 



His quests in search of knowledge are 

Astonishing; 
Truth, like a candle, shining far 

In everything — 

Glimmering, luring him along 

From dread to dread, 
While the fixed stars of right and wrong 

Burn overhead. 

Hence bear with me a moment more; 

Or better still, 
Come in the house and shut the door: 

They judge him ill. 

And at his habits roll their eyes, 

The neighbors here, 
Who deem him something less than wise 

And more than queer. 

The secret passions and the surge 

Of lust acquire 
Divine momentum in the urge 

Of heart's desire. 

Nothing that does a human wrong 

Is less divine. 
How deeply wounded are the strong, 

Who show no sign! 



97 



Strength is the duty of the oak, 

As of the dike. 
The city and the forest folk 

Are much alike. 

Among them hardly has been seen 

Or found the mark 
Of difference that lies between 

The skin and bark. . . . 

Such thoughts of course are quite enough 

To queer a saint. 
His Pan is something much too rough 

To carve or paint; 

Is something such as one may seek 

And find in trees, 
Half Dutch or Spanish, and half Greek 

Or Japanese. 

Foolish? When April comes around 

To his abode, 
This fellow feels in duty bound 

To take the road: 

But meanwhile rummages the town, 

Remains a boy, 
And turns traditions upside down 

In search of joy: 



98 



And idolizes every child 

Within his ken, 
Albeit wholly reconciled 

Never again. 

I saw him only yesterday, 

Shred-worn and thin 
With pity and passion — men say 

Looking like sin. 

But that, sir, can that be the word 

Of the right ring? 
His heart was as that of a bird 

With a broken wing. 

So has he grown to be a friend ; 

In time of need, 
Ready to challenge and defend 

With word or deed. 

A wayfarer so valiant gay 

Can be a boon 
Companion any idle day 

Or hour in June. 

When all the drowsy purple land 

Is full of sun, 
His hope is yet to understand 

Thy will be done. 



99 



Content to win, resigned to lose, 

Yet on release, 
To find, beyond the avenues, 

The ways of peace. 

DERELICT. 

I STRAY at ease from street to street, 
Imposing on the town ; 
Contented with enough to eat 

And just enough renown 
To satisfy the public eye, 
And dislocate a frown. 

Oddly approved, on every hand, 

Is such fantastic strife, 
That I have come to understand, 

While dancing to the fife, 
The comedy, the greatness and 

The littleness of life. 

My clothes may claim to be akin 

To cousin-german shreds; 
And often chalkily the skin 

Shows through the latticed threads; 
Seeing success is more or less 

A game of tails or heads. 

Which makes me wonder just how much 
My fault it was to leave 

100 



The road and fall in love and clutch 

An angel by the sleeve. 
But all the same my purse became 

A thing an elf could heave. 



Straightway my course was toward the last 

Resort of poverty; 
Sickness and debt came crowding fast, 

And I went on a spree, 
Cursing the present and the past 

And the lean years to be ; 



Cursing the woman and the man 

Who had begot me poor; 
Cursing the heavy iron ban 

Of poverty the more 
Because, by chance or circumstance, 

My drift was low and lower. 



And she, the Missis, fell away, 

Flickering like a flame, 
And dwindled slowly day by day, 

Until the kiddie came 
And bruised our souls for that his gray 

Outlook would be the same. 



101 



On me a thieving passion stole; 

Thinking perhaps to save 
The only one in all this whole 

Creation who forgave 
The little sin of nature in 

A somewhat feeble slave. 

She died. And God seems more and more 

Remote since then to praise. 
Being numb and weary and so sore 

In very many ways, 
My will remains but to deplore 

The sad or happy days. 

And still the moments slip and slide 

From winter into spring; 
And foam upon the countryside 

Is breaking when I bring 
Across the mart a foolish heart 

To hear the thrushes sing. 

As darkness deepens on the town 

Of carriages and cars, 
And roaring thoroughfares that drown 

The birds — their happy bars, 
I go to find a bed far down 

Under the quiet stars. 



102 



BUMBLE BEE. 
An April Reckoning. 

SINCE Jason and Magellan 
Or Raleigh made a stir, 
Was ever such a felon 
And sheer adventurer! 

Resolved to reconnoitre, 

Ere May shall come to pass, 

Sealed orders bid him loiter 
About the flowerless grass. 

By an instinct unerring, 

He shapes his course to hear 
The soft and sudden stirring 

That strikes no mortal ear. 

His raids across the border 
He plans as one inspired, 

Nor ponders on the order 
And energy required. 

Wise? A more knowing rover 
Cocks eye on land nor sea! 

The fourth leaf on the clover 
He deems no rarity. 

103 



His decalogue imposes 

No promises to keep, 
Made ere the great red roses 

Had wakened from their sleep; 

Made ere the first field daisies 
Grew wide-eyed wondering 

To see that which amazes 
Narcissus in the spring. 

Outbound to raise a rumpus, 
He drones a rumbling song, 

Nor boxes any compass, 

Nor recks of right and wrong. 

A rough rogue of a fellow, 
Half fickle, half sincere, 

Withal may reach the yellow 
Seas and across them steer — 

And find his sins forgiven, 
At anchor where the rills 

Flow honey in a heaven 
Of golden daffodils. 



104 



TRAVEL. 

{Ante Bellum.) 

I WENT to Europe, said my friend, 
Expecting wonders rare 
To open vistas without end, 
And lay the future bare. 

Paris, of course, would be in style; 

And Berlin, London, Rome, 
Would show me something more worth while 

Than anything at home. 

And then to hear them cheer a crown, 

Or praise some rusty thing 
That the dark ages handed down, 

Was — was astonishing. 



IU5 



SEA SPRAY AND WOOD WINDS. 



TO 



EDWARD J. WHEELER 



107 



FROM AN ATLANTIC WINDOW. 

MY window looks upon the sea, 
Where white sails hover and appear 
Like gulls that idly float and veer, 
As in a vision quietly. 
The sun has dwindled to a beam, 
Going behind the Camden hill, 
And vanishes: the sea is still, 
As in a dream. 

Above, the trailing galaxies 

Frame the full moon that comes to gild 

The sea graves where the wrecks are stilled, 
And are one with the silences. 
On worn and wasted frontiers dwell 

War echoes — dying, dying down, 

In hollow rumors of renown, 
As in a shell. 

Night: and the sea-marks faintly shine. 
The gulls are gone, the sails are furled; 
And rocking is the drowsy world, 



109 



Cradled in dreams and airs divine. 
Night: and the stars resume control, 

And patiently their vigils keep, 

Till weary hopes have gone to sleep, 
As in a soul. 

EPHEMERON. 

THERE was a famous city long ago, 
With sun-bright wharves and streets that nn » by 
noon 
Have emptied and grown still: and there are no 

Familiar voices mingling with the croon 
Of rocking seas and tides that ebb and flow, 
Droning and chanting a continual rune. 

THE HUNT. 

HARKEN the hounds on the waters tonight, 
Baying the stars as they hurry and flee! 
Stirring remembrance and blurring delight, 
Triumphs the trumpeting sea. 

Gale upon gale rises foaming and fills 

Sail after sail sweeping into the lee ; 
While in the darkness, now calling the hills, 

God goads the galloping sea. 



110 



AT THE WILL OF THE MOON. 

JOY has come with a word from the sea, 
And has brought to my cabin door 
A hope for the dream, and one more 
When the dream is a memory. 

Joy has gone . . . and red leaves are astir; 

Ay — and gone like an ebbing thing; 

Is all of the glory of Spring, 
That can only return with Her. 



OH! NOT THE MOON. 

OH! not the moon, nor forest minstrelsy, 
Conjures and stirs the clear, shy voice of Song; 
Nor all the thunders of the clarion sea, 

Even as yonder dim, far, heart-loud thundering human 
throng. 



ON CHATHAM BEACH. 

SOFTLY the gathering shadows finger and release 
Star after silver star — and with a crimson kiss, 
Warmly the molten moon burns down the dreaming seas. 
Dear God! what heaping thunders have been spent 
for this! 



Ill 



WAR. 

CHARGE upon thundering charge an army sweep.* 
To crimson victory beneath the rain 
Of storming cannon, and a nation leaps 
To glory — scarred with curses of the slain. 

THE DUEL. 

OSONG that ends before it has been sung! 
And theme that breaks before the tale is told ! 
When soul and body — one so gray and old, 
Stabs one so hale and young! 

VIGIL. 

SEARCHING the seasons for a secret presence, I 
Must watch and wait: 
She may come late, 

She may be passing by, 
As the wind does viewlessly: 
And such is fate. 

A CHARACTER. 

THEY said — and it was credible — the whole 
Hot host of hell was clamoring to see 
One mutinous, indomitable soul 
Duel with destiny. 



112 



OUBLIETTE. 

THINK how the felon in his cell 
Must love the smallest thing . . . 
The fly, the spider! God! how well 
He knows the human sting! 



LOVE AND LIFE. 

Love. — I have known all worth knowing, and have wept, 
And wondered what to give worth giving more, 
And been betrayed . . . and with my tears have 
slept, 
Till life again came knocking at the door. 

Life. — I have made merry, and much zest have found, 
And celebrated, duelling with lust, 
And relished love . . . and shuddered at the 
sound, 
As of hearts breaking . . . crumbling into dust. 



RENUNCIATION. 

LOVE built a house and strove with might to weave 
Something that faded and was hardly more 
Than hieroglyph. Then sadly taking leave, 

Love said good-bye to hope — and shut the door. 



113 



THE HAUNTED HOUSE. 

VACANT? The house is filled with vacant eyes; 
Is like a grave that leaks in sudden showers. 
Outside — the garden, under dripping skies, 
Is filled with green and rusty iron flowers. 

MORS OMNIBUS COMMUNIS. 

HERE in the sun, warm winds and waving grass 
Are full of sighs and whispers. One by one, 
With solemn faces, men and women pass, 
Here in the sun. 

SPRING SONG. 

SOFTLY at dawn a whisper stole 
Down from the Green House on the Hill, 
Enchanting many a ghostly bole 

And wood-song with the ancient thrill. 

Gossiping on the country-side, 

Spring and the wandering breezes say 
God has thrown Heaven open wide, 

And let the thrushes out today. 

SERENADE. 

THE Moon puts on her silver veil 
And shawl of lace: and with far lutes 



114 



And violins in many a dale, 

The thrushes blow their woodland flutes. 

Quickened by many a ghostly cheer, 
Under the Moon the forest heaves 

And sways with ecstasy to hear 
The eery laughter of the leaves. 

CANTICLE. 

DEVOUTLY worshiping the oak, 
Wherein the barred owl stares, 
The little feathered forest folk 
Are praying sleepy prayers. 

Praying the summer to be long 

And drowsy to the end, 
And daily full of sun and song, 

That broken hopes may mend. 

Praying the golden age to stay 

Until the whip-poor-will 
Appoints a windy moving day, 

And hurries from the hill. 

AUTUMN SONG. 

ONCE more the crimson rumor 
Fills the forest and the town ; 
And the green fires of summer 
Are burning — burning down. 



115 



Oh, the green fires of summer 

Are burning down once more! 
And my heart is in the ashes 

On the forest floor. 

INTERLUDE. 

SINCE yesterday has been no word, 
Nor voice of anything 
To thrill the forest; and no bird 
Has any heart to sing. 

Since yesterday has been no track 

Of Pan, nor any power 
To lure the gypsy summer back, 

And fool a single flower. 

REQUIESCAT 

GRAY are the sentry leaves and thinned 
That whisper at my cabin door, 
Sighing and mourning as the wind 
Worries and walks the forest floor. 

O leaves, O leaves that find no voice 
In the white silence of the snows, 

To bid the crimson woods rejoice, 
Or wake the wonder of the rose! 



116 



FANCY FIELDS. 

TO 
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE. 



117 



THE MAKING OF SPRING. 

UPON a day in April 
There came a sudden hush- 
The silence of the forest, 
Expectant of a thrush. 

Hardly an aspen quivered, 

Until a breeze and rill 
Were startled by the rumor 

Of daisies on the hill. 

Sudden — a gust of passion 

Developed in the air, 
As though the Little People 

Were thronging everywhere. 

And lo ! the spell that deepened 
On larch and pine and fir, 

Was broken. In the maple, 
The sap began to stir. 



119 



Softly the doors of silence 
Were opened ; and set free, 

Were voices full of wilding, 
Prophetic mystery. 

Had some world been discovered? 

Or had Pan misbehaved? 
Or was it but a nation 

That needed to be saved? 

The thrush came with a question, 

Adventurous to find 
Some remnants of the wonder 

That God had left behind. 



THE GARDEN CINDERELLA. 

THINK the hermit thrush had spread 
The tidings with a vocal wand, 
As dawn came with a dappled tread 
So softly on the garden land. 

Souls of the roses one by one 

Went palely through the garden skies, 

Like ashes sifting from the sun, 
Or the stray ruins of butterflies 



120 



And with a rosy sisterhood 

Of blossoms dreaming in the dawn, 

Demurely nodded one that stood 
Behind a dewy curtain drawn. 

She dreamt her dreams, and never gazed 
Beyond the curtain, it is told, 

Until the Twilight came and raised 
A wondering little face of gold. 



It may have been a fairy face 

Thrilling the garden with a smile, 

Or just a primrose sent to grace 
The darkness for a little while: 



Fleeing perhaps a nunnery 

Of blossoms very softly furled, 

Confessing her desire to see 
The beauty of the garden world. 

Envoy 

Veiled Princess! In the morrow land 
That gathers nearer hour by hour, 

Beneath the Secret Shadow Hand, 
Is any face or any flower? 

121 



OAK LORE. 

I WENT into the Wood 
Of the Green Mystery, 
And sought for the secret 
Abode of Hidden Glee. 
On a tomb it was written 

That ye who seek shall find, 
Though the owl have vision, 
Or the bat be blind. 

I went into the Wood 

Of the Green Mystery, 
And felt for the secret 

Repose of every tree. 
Sealed in them was the message 

That ye who strive are sure 
Of desire that only 

Prevails to endure. 

EVENING. 

THERE is only a star in the sky; 
On the wandering waters the breeze 
Dies away in the ghost of a sigh. 

Over meadow and marsh comes the cheep 

Of the frog: and adream in the trees 
Are the wren and the robin asleep. 



122 



Now rises the moon like a frail 

Floating bubble just over the hill, 
At the far keening call of the quail. 

All the dark brooding forest is still, 

Save the aspen so shyly astir, 
Or the hidden and hesitant rill. 

Then the moon slowly wanes, and the gray 

Forest deepens as softly as night, 
And the rivulet dreams on its way. 



AN UMBEL FOR SPRING. 

NEARER now and ever nearer, 
Wing to wing, 
Come the swallows with a clearer 
Twittering. 
Everything 
Wakes and bourgeons as though straying 
In adventure, hoping, saying 
It is Spring. 

Breezy ripples dance and quiver 
Riotously on the river. 

Skipping 
Deftly now and tripping 

Hand in hand, 
Over sea and over land 



123 



Gather oaf and elf and fairy, 
Shyly vigilant and wary 

Of the sere 
Sentry leaves and bastion grasses, 
As the season blithely passes 

Down the year. 

Thronging couriers of the air 

Stir and start and would be going. t 

Eery trumpets, softly blowing 

Everywhere, 
Echo faintly and declare, 

Surely, surely 
It is April so demurely 
Tipping every voice and tossing 
Flowery purses as of old, 
Spilling minted marigold 
As a fee at every crossing. 

Quietly the hosts of June 
Strike their dewy southern tents, 
Delicate with woven scents; 

Breaking camp 

With muted tramp; 
Marching nearer past the gleaming, 
Idle rivers southward dreaming — 

Weird and quaintly, 

Very faintly 
Chanting unto Spring 
Songs that men may never sing. 
124 



Buds are boldly peeping out 
Of the tents now pitched about 

In the grasses; 
Feeling safe and very sure 
Of themselves — and so secure 
That the reckless ones are finely 
Gossiping: and so divinely 

Is it done 
That the breezes guard the passes 

In the sun. 

Happy, happy ever after 

Are the shout and lyric laughter 

Echoing 
Over hill and rill and valley, 
With the rout and rush and rally 

Of the Spring. 

Never any living thing 
In the mad and merry season 
But rejoices beyond reason: 
Cows are lowing; 
Waters flowing ; 
Lambs are bleating; 
Birds are greeting; 
Everything that has a voice is 
In the chorus and rejoices 
In the mere delight of giving 
Pleasure and in simply living. 

125 



Hush and hear 
Yonder mighty army stirring 

In the grasses ; 

Cheer on cheer 
Rises as the season passes 

Sheer 
Overhead on pinions whirring 

Far and near, 
Winging, winging, winging down the year. 



APOTHEOSIS. 

LAST night the world died. 
How the imps skurried! 
Some souls were enskied ; 
Some of them buried. 

Others who were as tall 
And strong as seven, 

To the surprise of all, 
Fell short of heaven. 

Many who stormed the gate, 

Bent on acquiring 
Glory at any rate, 

Soon began tiring. 

126 



Some took the time to ring, 
And were anointed. 

How many hurrying 
Were disappointed ! 



THE SISTERS. 

NIGHT, in the chambered east, 
Sits with Dawn at the door. 
Dropped from her golden feast, 
Star-crumbs scatter the floor. 



Mice from behind the sun 

Patter along the sky; 
Nibbling the crumbs they run, 

Touching with footprints shy. 

Echoes of purring sound 
Over the world below ; 

Nothing more to be found, 
Scamper — away they go! 

Dawn, in the chambered east, 
Rises: and through the door, 

Night has gone from the feast 
Over an azure floor. 

127 



VALE. 

AN idle wayfarer, it may be said, 
Did briefly reverence the roadside flowers, 
Wherein the roses burned from white to red, 
Crumbling in crimson showers. 

And on the upward and the downward slopes 

Are embers now of many a cheerful fire, 
Hardly alive beneath the smoldering hopes 
And ashes of desire. 

So, at the quiet going out of day, 

And as the little brooks at vespers tell 
Their pebbly rosaries — comes one to say 
Good-bye and wish you well. 



128 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process. 
Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide 
Treatment Date: Sept. 2009 

PreservationTechnologies 

A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

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